Take Me Baby, Or Leave Me
by Threnna
Summary: It's England's "birthday", all the nations are assembled. England tries to stop France from flirting with others. Then, of course, singing ensues. /A song one-shot/ "And if you give a damn, you better take me baby, or leave me!"


I was working on a chapter for my "The Conference Musical" when my playlist jumped onto this song. And I got so much inspiration I just had to write a FrUk to it. x) Since this thing does't have anything with the musical to do –except from being the same kind of story- I posted it on its own. Anyhows, rambling over and done with, hope you enjoy!

**Song**: Take me or leave me – Rent (the movie, 2005).

(If you're gonna listen to the song while reading, please listen to the Rent version, and not the Glee version, 'cause that's the one I was listening to. ;p )

Entire sentences in _italics_ inside these "" is sung by both. You'll see what I mean.

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><p>It was his birthday. Or whatever to call it. It didn't really matter, as he never cared much for these kinds of loud, crowded festivities anyway -well, had he been able to be honest with himself, that would only have been between forty and sixty percent true, depending on the party, but he was England after all-, and this one was growing to become one of the worst yet.<p>

Not that he had actually realised so at the moment, however. I was still clueless as he refilled his glass with a punch France had made after having practically chased him from the kitchen with a broomstick. What was the problem anyhow? England could have helped. He really could. This was liquor for crying out loud. His pirates had made their own blends for centuries, so if anyone knew how to mix alcohol and other liquids, it should be him. But, he had to admit a little begrudgingly, the pink punch was rather good. Not that he would tell France that –then he would never hear the end of it.

As he turned around with a sigh and a full glass, America slung an arm around his shoulders. "How ya feelin', old man?" he grinned. "One year older now, feel the grave calling yet?"

England snorted unimpressed. "This is not technically my birthday. You lot just prefer to refer to it as such for simplicity's sake. I feel perfectly fine, thank you very much, Alfred."

"Hm~," America leaned in closer. "I must say though," he said "whatever anti-wrinkle cream you use, it's workin' real well. You gotta give me the name in some thousand years." He laughed that annoying, I'm-the-man laugh, England swatting at him with a huff. However, he stopped mid-slap before he had even managed to hit the American once. For a second he just stared across the room, but then he let his hand fall and handed his glass over to America with a distracted "hold this, please," and left. America looked confused at first, but then he looked in the direction England was headed in full vigour and grimaced knowingly.

"Hello, could you excuse us for a minute."

A lively yet polite, smiling and pleasant conversation was interrupted as England grabbed a hold of one of the two conversation-participant's elbow. The other blinked surprised, but then nodded, smiling again. England pulled the first with him. Only when they were out of ear shot did he stop and turn to the person in his hold.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"What? We were just talking."

"Right," Arthur growled lowly. He was as likely to believe that as believing the moon was made of cheese.

"Arthur, we were just talking." A sigh and a gentle gesture.

"France, please, do not do this today," England jerked away from the other's soft touch, frowning.

"You know what, Arthur Kirkland?" France's hand dropped; the gentle expression on his face dropping with it. "I can't take much more of this. This obsessive compulsive control freak paranoia." He gestured mildly upset.

"_What_?" England snapped.

"I'd impierce my nipples if it grossed you out." England's eyes widened. But France was not done. "And I stayed at that club yesterday because _you_ wanted to go home."

"You were flirting with the man in tight leather," England hissed, straining not to exclaim with frustration.

"There will always be men in tight leather flirting with me." Those who heard France's words did not even bat an eyelid. "Give me a _break_," this however, did bat several. Not because the choice of words was so out of the ordinary –they were really scarily common when it came to the two- but the sudden volume change in France's voice was something new.

"Every single day," France put his glass down at a nearby table "I walk down the street, I hear people say 'baby' so sweet," he shrugged smiling, lifting his hands in a laid back claim of the world around.

"Ever since puberty," his grin grew a little wider at this, as they all knew puberty had never changed France –he had been so from the start. Not that the Nations had the human version of puberty anyway, but oh well.

"Everybody stares at me," France smiled at England, who in return rolled his eyes. "Boys," France motioned to he left "girls," he motioned to the right. England turned to walk away. He would not stand for this. "I can't help it, baby," France called from behind him, England's steps quickening. Yet somehow, France's leisure steps managed to catch up with him with seemingly great ease.

"So be kind," he took a hold of England's hand, stopping him on the spot. "And don't lose your mind," France turned England around in a soft swirl. "Just remember," France linked his hands behind England's back "that I'm your baby." The Brit looked perplex for a moment, but then he came back to reality and tried for the life of him to get out the other's grip. France on the other hand, merely chuckled merrily.

"Take me for what I am," he sang, and next snaked one hand under the back of England's suit jacket and shirt, the other slipping easily under the belt and band of the Brit's trousers. "Who I was meant to be," France murmured.

"A pervert, you mean?" England snapped, wriggling out of France's grip with very upset coloured ears as he stumbled backwards.

"And if you give a damn," France pocketed his hands relaxed, following the fumbling Englishman. "Take me baby-" England's eyes twitched. He was certain he had seen what he had seen. France had done it. If so just barely. England had seen a slight, but no doubt fully intentional, jerk of the hips. "Or leave me," France continued unaffected with a very –very- fully aware smile.

"A tiger in a cage,"

England had hit the wall.

"Can never see the sun,"

And he could only watch in horror as Prussia left his seat with a too wide grin, allowing France to elegantly ascend to the table in front of him.

"This diva needs his stage," France smirked pleased.

"You can bet I know," England mumbled, rolling his eyes, but then discovered to his discomfort that two chairs had suddenly skidded in place at each side of him. In one; Elizabeta. In the other; _Russia_. 'Why', he didn't know, but escape was definitely impossible now.

"Baby, let's have fun." The delicate movements of the hips were no mistake this time; England knew that for sure but was all the same annoyingly unable to tear his eyes away. France smiled to himself.

"You are the one I choose," France proceeded to wink and point all showy-like at England. Who in turn had a red colour spreading from his ears to the entirety of his cheeks. France shook his head disapprovingly, continuing "Folks would kill to fill your shoes," and spread his arms as if to fully display the goods of his being.

"You love the limelight too now, baby," France winked, and England wanted to sink into the ground at the awful truth of those words. He was quickly snapped out of his embarrassment at that frog's next move, though.

"So be mine," France had shrugged off his suit jacket. "And don't waste my time," France popped open the forth of his shirt button (seeing as the other three had been open since he had first put on the suit), soon followed by the fifth. "Crying:" France was half between a grin and smirk as he pulled at his shirt to further expose his neatly toned chest and upper stomach "'oh honey bear," he pouted his lips a little "are you still my," his hands travelled downwards, leaving his shirt in slight disarray "my," his fingers found his belt buckle, loosening it and pulling the entire belt slowly from his trousers "my," his eyes glinted at England's obvious horror as he let go of the belt to coil at his feet, "baby," France all but bordered to a moan as he sensually opened his button and pulled at his trousers.

England's eyes shot lightning. "Don't you dare!"

France's trousers unzipped themselves in one smooth motion, receiving whooping from several mouths –except for the groan from the English.

"Take me for what I am," France acted to ignore England as he did a particularly demanding and suggestive knee bend, his clothes spreading further. His eyes glittered with delight as he saw England get up out of the corner of his eye.

"Who I was meant to be," France pretended to be surprised when someone grabbed a hold of his hand, turning him slightly. England glared up at him, pulling France down to stand at his knees.

"I can't believe you are doing this," England snarled, buttoning up the French nation's shirt all the way to the top; not caring the neck was likely more than a little uncomfortably tight. There was only a slight hesitation to his movement before he with a frown on his face harshly grabbed France's trousers.

"And if you give a damn," and _oh_ if only England had seen France's face then. As England zipped him up France rolled his hips into England's hands, the latter's eyes growing considerably, jerking his hands away. –Or trying to at least.

"Take me baby," but France had caught them, keeping them snugly placed over his crotch. That the Brit could get any redder than he already was, was a wonder to behold. France believed he could see the skin beneath England's hair roots blushing even. "Or leave me." He released England's hands.

"No way, can I be what I'm not," France shrugged with an over exaggerated huff, getting back on his feet. "But hey," he caught England's eyes, winking, sending shivers down the poor Brit's back. "Don't you want your man hot?" France kissed the air flirtingly, striking an incredibly –hot indeed- _stupid _pose.

"Don't fight," France shook his head. "Don't lose your head. 'Cause every night," a mischievous smile played with the corners of his mouth. England stared at him, like a deer caught in headlights. "Who's in your bed?" France nearly whispered, titling his head slightly, enjoying the sight of the so embarrassed and flustered Brit.

"Who?" he demanded louder, watching England jerk.

"Who's," France pulled at the note, getting back down on his knees, "in your bed?" He could almost see the furious rattling of England's chin as the Brit felt all the eyes on him expecting him to answer. France smirked lightly. He leaned onto the table with one hand, delicately reaching out with the other.

"Kiss, Arthur."

It took a whole of three seconds for England to finally snapp out of it. France was getting far, all too far, ahead of himself. After all, who was it that had ruled one third of the world once? Certainly not France. And even if he was an idiot –England had no doubts about that- he should certainly know to show _some _level of tact every once in a while. England growled, slapping France's hand away.

"It won't work," he stated with definite.

"I look before I leap," France faked surprise as England sang. "I love margins and discipline. I make lists in my sleep," his eyes narrowed "_baby_." He stood calm as a rock, eyeing France.

"What's my sin?"

"Never quit. I follow through," England gestured coolly, taking his time strolling closer to France. "I hate mess," he looked the Frenchman up and down, clearly addressing the other's clothes' current state, for one thing. Then he reached up, taking a hold of the shirt collar and pulling France's face down to his level. Now the surprise on the other's face was real, and did not lighten as England nearly –but now quite – brushed their faced together, mouth close to France's ear. "But I love you." There was no way he was singing that out loud after all.

England then roughly pushed France away so they were face to face again, but France's surprised expression was slowly being replaced by a lopsided smile. England still had a good hold of his collar.

"What to do with my impromptu, _baby_? So be wise," a slight smirk graced England's otherwise stern face. Then there was a slight twitch in his brow. "'Cause this man _satisfies_," and England did a full body roll into the Frenchman. "You got a prize," England pulled the other even closer. "So don't compromise," his breath tickled across France's lips. Now the latter certainly wouldn't mind if England took on this act more often.

Then England let go, so France lost his balance, failed to catch himself, only saved by Spain sitting on one of the closest chairs. He got back up his feet, straightening his shirt.

"You're one lucky baby!" England turned away, gesticulating ignorantly with one hand, the other slipping into his pocket. "Take me for what I am," he cast a cool glance across his shoulder.

"A control freak?" France tilted his hips, resting on one foot with a raised eyebrow, earning several snickers, and a frozen England.

"Who I was meant to be," England scowled, turning around slowly.

"A snob, yet over attentive," France smiled back, stepping down from the table, catching his jacket on the way and sighing in a manner implying he was dealing with a hopeless child.

"And, if you give a damn," England followed the other's every step with his eyes.

"A lovable droll, geek," France stopped one foot from him, England's eyes narrowing considerably.

"Take me, _baby_," England stared hard into France's eyes, "or leave me," and dry-spit him straight in the face. France's jaws tightened.

"And anal retentive," he growled.

The mood had flipped, the air literally shook with the seething rage emitting from the two countries, keeping everyone else on a safe fifteen foot distance. "Oh boy," Spain mutter under his breath with a lopsided smile, Prussia whistling long and low. The truth of France's words was scarily true –but could not hold a candle to the chill striking anyone who was unfortunate enough to glance into Great Britain's eyes at the moment.

"_That's it!_" France and England exclaimed, thunder in their voices.

"The straw that breaks my back," England hissed, his fingers flexing unconsciously.

"_I quit!_" and the two nations turned away from each other with such abrupt force America had no doubts their flapping jackets could have seriously wounded someone.

England's head bowed slightly, hands knitting into fists as his shoulders tightened. "Unless you take it back," he half snarled half mumbled, eyes looking in France's direction even though they could not see each other.

"_Men," _both suddenly flung their hands up –France one, England both- walking further away from one another.

"What is it about them?" France sighed at Spain, nodding in England's direction.

"_Can't live_," England and France continued, looking at each other from each their side of the circle that at some time had been created by the other nations. "With them," England snorted. "Or without them," France did a big number of sliding a finger under Prussia's chin.

"_Take me for what I am_," England, who had retrieved his glass from America, flung it like he had daggers back in the days, at France. The French nations just barely evaded it, ducking with a surprised yelp, the glass half an inch from hitting a clueless Italian (but luckily Germany was there to save the day –with a low grumble of never attending a party containing either of the conflicting nations ever again).

"Who I was meant to be." England glared, starting to walk along the edge of the circle as France pulled a hand through his hair straightening up, moving counter wise.

"Who I was meant to be," he echoed, each their step as calculated as the smallest move in a war.

"And, if you give a damn," France's hands were in his pockets. The two gradually moved in a spiral inwards.

"And if you give damn, you better," England followed, not bothering to wait until France was done, as they were now mere feet away from each other.

"Take me baby," England opened his arms in an angry challenge.

"Oh, take me baby," France's voice took a dangerous turn for the softer; he was more than willing to step up. He lifted a hand out of its relaxed confinement of his trousers, sliding along England shoulder and chest, taking a soft hold of his tie.

"Or leave me," England made no move to budge from France's touch.

"Take me," France slipped off the Brit's tie, "or," one hand moving downwards, to shoved England's shirt up, the other slipping around the Brit's waist. "leave me."

"_Take me baby," _England's hand came up to encircle France's neck, one of his hands tangling into France's soft locks before taking a firm hold, the only reaction he got a twitch in the corner of France's eye. "_Or leave me." _England brought their faces closer.

Then, for a short moment, silence was all of a sudden allowed to sink into the room, wrapping around furniture as well as nations staring without moving a muscle. Even a certain Japan's camera made no sound as its screen's upper, right corner sported a small, red spot.

First, it might have seemed that the two individuals in the middle of the room would not move ever again. But then there was a movement in the corner of England's mouth.

"_Guess I'm leaving."_ Despite the coarseness of their words, their voices were strangely gentle and quiet, as they gave their opposite's face a once-over. Then their embrace ended, each ripping himself away from the other, finding each their door to leave –England through the ground floor balcony and France the front door-.

And with the sound of doors opening came a loud, ignorant, and not to mention furious "_I'm gone!" _

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><p>After the doors had slammed shut, silence had yet again settled around the remaining nations for a while, before some coughed awkwardly and others snickered subdued –everyone knew who- and people slowly began returning to their drinks and tables.<p>

"Ve~," Italy latched himself onto Germany. "You think they are going to be angry with each other for long?" his forehead wrinkled up a little as he looked up at the larger nation. Germany shook his head with a heavy –and ever so slightly annoyed- sigh, but was not able to answer as someone else butted in.

"Don't worry, Italy," Spain patted Italy's head with an obvious blissful expression, receiving daggers from the other twin from across the room. Next to him Prussia sniggered with his hands linked behind his head.

"They are probably already heating up the bed covers."

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><p>A cookie to anyone who can see what inspiration I took from Rent. x)<p> 


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